Page 258 - The Book Thief

Her brother was next to her.

He whispered for her to stop, but he, too, was dead, and not worth listening to.

He died in a train.

They buried him in the snow.

Liesel glanced at him, but she could not make herself stop. Not yet.

This book, she went on. She shoved the boy down the steps, making him fall. I
dont want it. The words were quieter now, but still just as hot. She threw The
Whistler at the womans slippered feet, hearing the clack of it as it landed on the
cement. I dont want your miserable book. . . .

Now she managed it. She fell silent.

Her throat was barren now. No words for miles.

Her brother, holding his knee, disappeared.

After a miscarriaged pause, the mayors wife edged forward and picked up the
book. She was battered and beaten up, and not from smiling this time. Liesel
could see it on her face. Blood leaked from her nose and licked at her lips. Her
eyes had blackened. Cuts had opened up and a series of wounds were rising to
the surface of her skin. All from the words. From Liesels words.

Book in hand, and straightening from a crouch to a standing hunch, Ilsa
Hermann began the process again of saying sorry, but the sentence did not make
it out.

Slap me, Liesel thought. Come on, slap me.

Ilsa Hermann didnt slap her. She merely retreated backward, into the ugly air of
her beautiful house, and Liesel, once again, was left alone, clutching at the steps.
She was afraid to turn around because she knew that when she did, the glass
casing of Molching had now been shattered, and shed be glad of it.

As her last orders of business, she read the letter one more time, and when she